


I Want You So Now

by leslie057



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 2x06, Angst, Canon Event, Character Study, Consummation of Love, Eventual Smut, F/M, Jancy, Kissing, Most likely Fluffy, Tension, first time fic, relationships, teenage love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-08-14 17:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16496984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslie057/pseuds/leslie057
Summary: Everyone has written this scene from 2x06, and here’s my interpretation. Unfinished. Unedited in some respects. Alt. summary: Jonathan being very careful with his feelings as Nancy tries to keep her urges under control.





	1. Chapter 1

   It is unbelievable in every sense of the word. That she’s in this situation. If a week earlier someone had told her she would be here with Jonathan, she truly would not have comprehended that. Here, in a different state, and his hands are in her uncombed hair. It cannot even be a third as soft as his. Here, and they’re kissing. Him, with uncharacteristic confidence until mere seconds later his breathing sounds so forced she’s scared he will hyperventilate. Deviating from that thought, she sucks on his chapped lower lip and waits for him to process everything. He does, calming some, and she leads him in her direction to the guest room. This is where. _This_.

   She feels a spark below her waist as he turns the two of them around and they kiss at the door, him pushing her against the curtains. It’s perfectly fine because she wants him to be in control now. The way he kisses her—like he’s hungry but able to follow her pace—is so exciting to her. Out of nowhere, he bites and pulls her lip delightfully before it retracts like elastic, and without her own permission she grabs his shoulders. She begins to gnaw at his innocent lips as if it’s a competition; he made her feel that, but she can make him feel this. Moving her tongue in his mouth, she knows she will start sweating though the building is as cold as it must be outside on the November night. Once he brings his right arm down to his side she goes to hold the shaking hand, but he draws back from her. For a fleeting moment the only word that exists in her mind is _no_  because there is no way they can stop now. Moving a little to the right, he bows his head and rests it on the door, his uneven breathing making a return. Her left hand having been in his hair, she tries to force him back to her, but he resists and turns his head. “We can’t...I can’t,” he voices. The four and a half minutes late realization that she’s not anyone’s for the taking hits her. “We can,” she lies, her heart beating faster somehow.

   “Nancy, it isn’t-“

   “You’re not listening to me.  _We can_ ,” she lies again. He’s still not assured so she says quietly, “We broke up.” She doesn’t even know if they did, but her priority is something else. This time when she pulls he submits, and she can see him. Already everything has changed. The way his voice had just sounded and the way his eyes look now. Vulnerable and focused, his previous wants replaced with carnal ones just like hers. During their second round of kissing, he’s doing more of the work, exercising his jaw, and they’ve secured the exactly right tempo. She asks herself what this is like for him. Her inference is he’s never kissed anyone—selfishly hopes for that—and she cannot figure out how he’s learning so well so fast. The halting manner in which he uses his tongue is way more attractive than it should be. His inexperience is. And _to think_ they’d been spending all their free time chasing down the department of energy when they could have been doing this. This, her sighing into his mouth and holding onto his forearms. This, for the first time in their lives. There’s a lot of things they can do. She is _anticipating_. While he takes her smooth lips between his, she picks her leg up which is unexpected for them both. But he holds it, lifting higher, and she gets some air as they figure it out together. She has both legs around him now, and his arms support her back. The change in position turns her on further; their clothes are rubbing together, their centers lined up. She’s wearing almost nothing underneath her sleep dress. The feel of his mouth grows to be familiar because she kisses a little dirtier than him, licking all in his mouth and all at once. She leans down and kisses his neck, sucking on the skin. He whimpers, voice low and rough, but it’s a whimper and her pulse exists all over. The underwear she does have on is ruined and wet. Her head keeps giving her these ideas, images, commands that surface one after the other. Previous repression of every thought of him has turned into obsession with every thought of him. He’s never done this, he’s never done this, he’s never done this.

   She grinds against him barely, the action blurry. Guys at school describe her as an easy lay, and now she is shocked at how little she is insecure about it. She doesn’t care if she’s loose, a whore, slut, whatever, whatever, _whatever_. This is enough to make her realize how small she and he are, how their classmates are, cruel really because of their own problems. They’re small. The guest room is small. The earth they live on isn’t, so all she can do is let herself be with him and not worry about anything that isn’t bigger than them. It sounds sad, but she hasn’t been happier in so, so long.

   She can vaguely hear their host’s music swell in the living room when he walks them to the bed. But once they get there he stops, and she wonders if it’s hurting him to hold her. Her arms around his shoulders, she gets down at the bottom of the bed and stands on her knees. He gives her the chills, nuzzling her hair, and she sweeps it back to one side in an effortless motion to expose her neck. Following several seconds of him staring at her, he makes the spirited decision to go for her collarbone, which is still covered so he has to nudge the cloth away. His mouth feels searing and thirsty, the contact perfect. A string of his saliva gets stuck to his lips and her soft skin. He pulls away so it stays on her, and there must be a whole mass of nerve endings right there because her sex aches suddenly. It draws out of her a whining sound that she doesn’t even attempt to stifle. It really is surreal. There is light and dark from outside coming in through the window and the sheet hung over it, breeding triangles of light and shadow on his face, neck, and shoulders. He finds her eyes, despite obstructed by her leaden eyelids, more alluring and blue than he’s ever seen. He and she remain frozen and desiring for a few seconds longer, not knowing what to do or likely not knowing where to start. She reaches for the hem of her dress, and he prevents her action by gripping her hips.

   “Are you sure?” asks Jonathan, sounding too grave and too stable. What? The knot that has been tied so tight for months is loosening—she gets to relax—and he’s worried about her _regretting_ all of this? It’s a significant thing, so he’s serious. That’s okay, but she can’t have him this kind of worked up when she’s a whole other kind of worked up. She literally lays her head on his shoulder and quietly begs, “Please don’t. Don’t do this.” Eventually she just has to lock eyes with him and say, “ _Yes_ , I’m sure.” Abruptly, she tugs her dress over her head. No more thinking, or talking, only touching. His upper body rocks itself forward a little as he observes, and she wants him to see more of her. Still standing at the end of the bed, he holds one of her hands as she throws her other arm around his neck. His thermal shirt brushes her bare chest when they kiss again. Though, as she secures her lips around his forcefully, he interrupts yet again. He’s driving her crazy. The bad kind.

   “Hold on, hold on.”

   Somehow she doesn’t let herself whine loudly like her body is telling her to. “What?” she fires back impatiently. “We don’t...we don’t have anyth-anything for...” he stammers. Her reaction is delayed, but she reacts. And the very last thing she is going to do right now is have an extended conversation with him about safe slash unsafe sex. Panting, she admits, “My parents...they make me, uh...they make me take something for it.” He’s looking at her, but not like you think someone would after you told them you were being forced to take birth control. She will leave out the detail that her mom _watches_ her take it. “Okay, sorry. All I...it’s...I promise I’ll stop talking,” he conveys his scattered thoughts quickly, not judging her at all. When she feels a hint of a smile influencing her expression, she notices how his eyes brighten. He still looks tired, his eyes narrow, just...bright. Ready to stay up for her, with her. “Okay,” she says through a hushed laugh, leaning into him. _Now_ no more thinking or talking.

   After they kiss for what is probably another minute, she’s getting that feeling. Her neck and chest are flushed, her skin tingles as if stuck with a hundred painless needles. She’s way more ticklish than normal, which he uses to his advantage. Touching her exposed sides, grazing under her chin with his thumb, and she can’t stay still every time. She grabs a handful of his shirt, pulling on the material. Reluctantly he tugs his right arm out of one sleeve, and takes the shirt over his head. He’s of a strong build—no, somehow slight—and has a sharp shape. A soft shape? Yes, but there’s definition to him. Her head tilted down, she stares at his abdomen, yet he doesn’t give her the chance to look at him very long and goes closer to hold her hand. Intentionally the hand she cut through a long time ago. Or at least it seems that way. She feels the scar on his rough palm against her own, and everything is...so _them_ right now. Involuntarily she’s forgotten about the circumstances, their problems back home, her questions.

    _I love him_  isall she can think.


	2. Chapter 2

  She realizes obscurely she’s not on her knees anymore, but shifting and trying to sit. Disinclined to ever have him out of reach until maybe the sun rises, she moves to the bed’s center as slowly as she can. His look of confusion—brows knit together, eyes searching, tightness in his jaw—has an effect on her that he is oblivious to as she pushes herself backward. The blankets are all creased. The pillows are at nonspecific places on the bed, a result of her shuffling in it and rearranging them earlier. As he crawls on she finally lies down, stretches out on the mattress. Never in her seventeen years has she been in such a state. She just feels unreal. With no weight. Her eyes closed, her chin tucked into her shoulder, she decides she feels bad for every other person in the world; they’ll never see this awed side of him...and be awed by it. He returns moments later, his frame sheltering hers. Who knows when he discarded his pajama pants, but he did get out of them at some point between then and now. He successfully arrives at her mouth again, which she by a very small margin opens to receive his. She takes in his upper lip, lower, upper, lower, still not opening her mouth much at all and sloping her head to the left then right. She’s drinking from him with sucking noises that could distract him from something as automatic as blinking or breathing, but he’s giving equivalent effort and energy to his own kissing style. Maybe he hasn’t seen the romantic movies or read the same books she has, but he’s figuring out what she _enjoys_. He’ll pull away just enough so that she has to chase after him or skim her neck with his lips so that she squirms until he kisses her decently.

  She really would have never guessed their excursion would end like this. His apprehension was evident from the beginning, and she expected the hours to be full of tense situations and reminders of her late friend. But here they were in the feeble light of an unfamiliar room, having the conventional type of teenage fun. But it’s not _only_  fun to either of them. Anyway, she’s grabbing onto the waistband of his boxers as she stops thinking about this, eliciting his low moan. Though it is dull, it’s still noisy, like all the other whimpers and sighs she’s been bringing out of him for several minutes. Either it’s because they’re pressed against each other, because it’s getting to be too much for him, or both. She stills and shivers randomly, the side of his face resting on her shoulder while he repositions. “You need to be quiet,” she reminds playfully. But also, he does need to. “I thought you were quiet,” she whispers, making a fist in his hair. He doesn’t argue, his wrists on each side of her head now that he’s balancing on his arms above her. He kisses her neck, determined, and when he bites and sucks on her sweet skin, the only thing between their sexes being the last of their clothing, she’s the one who gets loud. “ _I_ am quiet,” he finally asserts through her keening. She becomes aware of her hip movements, up and down and back and forth—practically dry humping him—and the heat coursing through her increases in power, but she’s not embarrassed. Well if she is, just a little. “Whatever,” she mumbles unclearly to his tongue and grasps the waistband of her own wet underwear, more than ready to get it off. Between her legs, he sits up to give her room. She bends and reaches and works it out, needing none of the help he didn’t offer because he was busy admiring her or something. Entirely undressed, she accidentally throws him into a trance.

  She holds his gaze. In the lamplight, pieces of his hair look dark blond. His eyes are darker, powerfully demonstrating his need _for_  her and his nerves _because_ of her. He’s still sitting up, and after she clutches his shoulder so he snaps out of it, she pushes on him. “Your side,” she clarifies. His body feels paralyzed, _she’s really beautiful right now_ , but he forces himself to lay down on his side next to her. Though he doesn’t understand why. No matter, the both of them know now he would do most anything for her and without much questioning or complaining. “Don’t be nervous,” she says as she takes hold of his closest hand. He breathes out shakily and tries not to be—he will focus on her—but she moves their hands down, stroking her stomach. By closing her eyes and relaxing her shoulders, she’s gotten ready for something. Jonathan leans into her and shoves his chin softly at her shoulder, confusion returning to him. He feels lost even though she’s taken the lead.

  He’s not lost when she slides their hands between her legs.

  He exhales on her skin, deciding to let his head rest on her pillow. She holds two of his still fingers, rubbing herself up and down. She’s very wet and warm in contrast to his cool hand. In disbelief, he moves his arm slightly, so she isn’t left with all the work. They keep going, massaging and touching her, and she then takes their hands more up where she grabs his wrist and moves it circularly. He can feel something here, and she obviously is feeling something because she gasps. Hesitantly he kisses her shoulder, it’s right there, but it has a strong effect on her. So strong that she lets go of his hand and leaves him all on his own. A second passes, she’s waiting for him to take the lead for her. He does carefully, touching and rubbing her under the sheets as he keeps in place between her neck and shoulder, his hair tickling her. He goes up like she had, more toward her navel, paying his attention there while she wets his hand. Her curls get in the way, and his other fingers brush her thigh, but that seems to turn her on more. He keeps going until she’s very sensitive there all of a sudden, and her shoulders come forward in reaction. She was once swaying her hips but now bucking into his hand, almost giving him too much control. She whimpers like crazy as he takes his hand away. She turns her head, and so does he as if on cue. She sighs, kissing him as her sex pulses and praying that it’s all real. Praying that if it is, it’s not the last time it happens.

  “Here,” she says, tugging him onto her. As he bends his arms to hold himself up, she straightens herself under him. “You’re-“ he starts to murmur but stops himself quickly. She tilts her head, asking softly, “What?” He looks to the left at the wall, as if he can find his courage there. She analyzes his side profile briefly, memorizing the angles. The light has drawn a stunning golden line following his forehead, nose, mouth, and chin. Eventually she realizes his words have faded, so she takes his boxers and pulls them down a third of the way. Barely enough, but she thinks it will keep him comfortable. A small sound which doesn’t have its own name is taken out of him, making it as obvious that he wants her badly as his sex is. She grasps him and hears a weakened version of the whine-groan. This is a dream. It _has_  to be.

  But it feels real as she guides him to where she needs him. Her stomach burning, her arms tingling, a blush spreading across her face, she tangles her hand in his hair and tries to prep herself for what’s next. There’s no way to. When he’s in her, her hand tenses, and they understand now it’s going to be a lot harder to keep quiet than they thought. At least without injuring each other; she’s already hurt him by pulling his hair that much. So she moans with her mouth closed, burying her face halfway in the scratchy pillow as they rock their hips. With her newly craned neck, she’s unintentionally but luckily given him so much area to work with. He lowers his head, kissing her under the ear and nuzzling her dark hair. His arms hurt, but he doesn’t even realize it. He could never. Not like this. Not with her. And soon she’s breathing much harder. Extremely harder. Then he is. She’s hypersensitive, every single movement of his making her squirm. The feeling builds in him just the same. He bites his own tongue and doesn’t let his mouth open as warmth pours through him. He can hear her fighting and struggling with herself, making only softened noises that kind of make it seem like she’s in pain. But through longing eyes he can see a little of the most content expression on her face. She wraps him in her legs, and he swallows hard, only now becoming aware that he’s been whispering her name. Repeatedly. The sensation grows intense and stronger and stronger and stronger, and it feels amazing. Their sexes are blazing hot, she fails to suppress one small cry, he literally has to _bite_  her skin, and then—

  They’ve moved on from the height of it, coming at nearly the exact same time. She releases her death grip on the hair at the nape of his neck, and he watches her bite her own hand to get through the aftershocks. Slowly, she separates her ankles as he takes himself out of her. “Oh, my God,” she says gently in a high pitch, her heart knocking against her chest. He stays silent and still. He loves her, and if he were less in his right mind he would say it. Then she remembers something: this isn’t _their space_. This is a _stranger’s space_ , and she can feel herself start to leak onto the bedsheets. When she lifts her head off the bed (tilting her hips up), she looks behind her and sees her pale pajama dress on the bookcase. She can recall it ending up there. She reaches and gets it, arches her body off the mattress, sneaks it under herself. The fabric catches the mess while she relaxes. Sort of reflecting on the situation, it occurs to her that she’s not taken note of her vulnerability all night. Which is usually something she would think about, be insecure about. She internally makes fun of herself, looking at her underwear still around one ankle. And she’s wearing her socks. But she doesn’t mind that he’s seen her undone. She liked being vulnerable.

  Anyway, Jonathan’s busying himself during her reflection. He had seen her reach for the dress and assumed she wanted to _get_  dressed. He’s pulled his boxers up and is leaning over to retrieve his shirt from the floor. When he returns, he sees her ruining her outfit from tonight. She rubs his sleeved arm as he stares at her, his amusement unspoken but there. Perhaps she’ll find something in her bag that’s tucked into the corner of the room.

 

—

 

  Jonathan wakes first. The room is dark and blue and cold unlike last night, where the lamp looked brighter than it was and there was nothing but heat. He repositions his head on the pillow, barely breathing. She’s there (of course she’s there), wearing her underwear and the thin shirt she managed to find in her stuff. Probably freezing, though his arm is around her waist. He is tired, they stayed up too late, but it was not something that could have waited. It changed them. They’re done expressing false feelings, hurting each other, avoiding each other. Still, he is not used to that. He’s going to have to get used to that. But viewing the hypnotic rise and fall of her upper body as she breathes, he decides it will make him better in the end. That it’s not a bad thing at all.

  He sees her begin to stir. Blinking, she takes in her dim surroundings. For the first time in hours, her heart rate is steady. Memories of those other hours are brought to her. His doubts when he rested his head on the door, their slow removal of clothing, his hair color changing at certain times, the way he kept saying her name as his voice gave out. She presses her back to his warm chest. Sighing and feeling his arm shift, she says, “Good morning.” When she tries to stretch out a little, the cold air hits her hard, and she recoils, getting right up against him. “Cold morning,” she mumbles to correct herself. “Sorry,” he apologizes (for not trying to warm her before) and pulls the thickest blanket they have up to her middle. “What time is it?” she asks him. “Um, it’s almost six. I should probably leave soon. When he wakes up...” he trails off. “Ten more minutes,” she proposes. She thinks he’ll take her up on it because if he’s in the same weary haze she’s in...

  “ _Five_...more minutes,” he tells her with emphasis. She turns, lies on her back, and sternly whispers, “Fifteen.” She’s genuinely not being playful. Her reasonable number shouldn’t have been lessened, so she had to go up. “No,” he responds as quietly, his eyes closed. “It’s just fifteen minutes,” she claims, her tone rising at the end. Finally, after a long moment, he says “ten” into her hair. Which is very, very messy. Whatever. That was her original offer anyway. She moves closer to him, getting cozy. But then the minutes pass and so much faster than she could have expected. “Let go,” he commands lightly while trying to separate her arm from him. He knows she’s awake. “Just wait.”

  “We said ten, and I gave you twelve.”

  Hugging his torso, she points out, “I never said ten.” She knows she did.

  He takes a deep breath and pushes her arm away. Not hostilely, but not sweetly either. It’s a good reminder that they’ve only spent one night together; she’s not allowed to treat him like her boyfriend. But she really doesn’t care about coming off as desperate. As he sits up, she does halfway and grabs his arm. “Wait, wait. Seriously, Jonathan. Why...why do you care if he finds out anyway?” He kind of shrugs away from her touch, and it makes her want to be angry. What’s so different about this morning from last night? “We don’t _know_  him,” she adds on. “Well, he knows us,” he says and only glances at her before trying to get up again. Grabbing the end of his sleeve, she tells him, “Stop, okay. Stop. Look, I know you don’t really like him. He helped us, but you don’t know him, so you don’t like him. Isn’t that a good enough reason not to care?” He meets her hopeful gaze. “Yes, but I just...I have to make sure to call home—I didn’t yesterday—and I don’t want to get back late, and-“

  “I know, I know. But we don’t have to get up right this second, right?”

  “No,” he admits sleepily. She feels better now, replying, “Okay.” She gets him to lie down with her.

  He knows why getting up too soon is so unappealing to her. It’s not that she wants to stay, it’s that she’s worried about going home. Where they have responsibilities, where there are dangerous things happening, where she can’t feel peaceful like this. Picking up her head off his shoulder a little, she says, “Thank you for coming here with me.” He simply kisses her.  _Thank you for letting me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, please comment if you did! I love hearing your thoughts. Thank you for reading.


End file.
